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(Standing in line) at the pay confessional
in my photo opportunity suit,
a cabaret of poetry in one hand,
just currency for some canceled Czech,
I get to the magic number dispenser lotto machine
but it’s empty!

A mime in drag with a roll of ticker tapes
sidles up to the promontory of the receiving unit
with the Host.

Will I get to taste Sal(i)vation or have to settle
for Sal(i)sbury Steak instead. Damned mystery meat
plagues my dentifricial overtures!

I take a numberless number, it’s best not to look.
I will be called to the hot seat when my time is /UP/!
Scenic variations drift through my view-strator as I… i.. i.